Chapter Twenty Five.
Another Pigeon Plucked.
“Major Gurdon? Show him in.”
The Major was shown in to the business-like-looking little grey man in his office at Drapers Buildings, but he did not take the seat offered.
“Now then, Mr Caley, I’ve come up. It is all a scare, is it not?”
The stockbroker shrugged his shoulders.
“Scare, sir? Perhaps; but everybody who holds these shares is realising for anything he can get.”
“But I heard such excellent reasons for buying them on the best authority,” cried the Major. “It promised to be almost a fortune.”
“My dear sir,” said the stockbroker; “most people who invest in mining shares do so on the best authority, and anticipate fortunes.”
“Yes, yes, but—”
“And then, to use the old simile, sir, find that they have cast their money down a deep hole.”
“Tut-tut-tut-tut!” ejaculated the Major. “But the latest news of the mine?”
“The latest news on ’Change, sir, is worse than that which we wired to you. It is disastrous, and seems to me like the bursting of a bubble. But it may not be so bad. We are quiet men, Major Gurdon, and deal with old-fashioned investors in government and corporation stocks. Two and a half, three, three and a half, and debentures. We do nothing with speculative business.”
“No, I know. You advised me strongly against what I did.”
“Yes, sir. We felt it our duty. But this, as I have before said, may only be a scare.”
“But money means so much to me, Mr Caley. Now tell me this: what would you do if you were in my place?”
“You wish for my advice, Major Gurdon?”
“Of course.”
Mr Caley touched the table gong and a clerk appeared.
“My compliments to Mr Bland, and ask him to step here.”
“I think he’s out, sir,” said the man. “I’ll see.” He left the office, and a minute later a thin, dark, anxious-looking man entered.
“Major Gurdon, I think? We met once before.”
“Bland, Major Gurdon wants our advice about ‘White Virgin’ shares. What would you do if you held any?”
“Give them away at once if they are not fully paid up.”
“Only a pound a share on call,” said Mr Caley. “What would you do?”
“Sell them at once for anything they would fetch; but there would be no buyers.”
“Thank you,” said Mr Caley. “You hear, Major Gurdon? I quite endorse my partner’s views.”
“But they may recover,” said the Major piteously. Mr Caley shrugged his shoulders. “Things could not look worse, sir; but as you cannot lose much more, and the call that will follow will not be heavy, you might speculate a little and hold on.”
“But I cannot afford to pay the call, gentlemen,” cried the Major. “It is ruin to me.”
“Then sell, sir,” said Mr Bland, “and get what you can out of the fire.”
“Sell? When?”
“At once, sir.”
“I—I think I will see the gentleman first through whom I bought them.”
“As you will, sir, but time is money,” said Mr Bland. “We might be able to place them to-day, as I hear rumours of some one buying up a few. In a couple of hours’ time it may be too late.”
“But surely, gentlemen, they will be saleable at some price?” cried the Major.
The partners shook their heads. And in a fit of desperation, the Major decided to sell, and was shown into a room, to wait while the preliminary business went on, Mr Caley himself going out to dispose of the shares.
Hours passed, during which the Major sat vainly trying to compose himself to read the papers on the table, but they seemed to be full of nothing else save adverse money market news; and at last he could do nothing but pace the room.
The door opened at last and the stockbroker entered, followed by his partner.
“I have done the best I could for you, sir,” said Mr Caley. “Here is an open cheque, which I would advise you to cash at once. There will be the necessary signature required by-and-by for the transference of the shares to the buyer, but that will occupy some days. Shall we send and get the cheque cashed?”
“Yes,” said the Major, as he caught up a pen, and glanced at the amount and signature. “Not a tenth of what I paid for them. Humph, ‘R. Wrigley.’”
“Yes, sir, a gentleman who has bought two or three lots, I believe.—Thank you.”
The Major threw himself back in his chair, and waited while the cheque was cashed, and then, shaking hands with his brokers, he took a cab and ordered the man to drive to Guildford Street.
“I hope we have given him good advice, Bland.”
“The best we could give. It was a chance of chances to get rid of them at all.”
“Let me see: that scheme was floated by old Grantham Reed, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and he did very wisely in dying and getting out of the way. What a vast amount of money has been thrown down mines.”
Yes: Mr Clive Reed was in, and the Major entered, and felt a little staggered at the solid, wealthy look of his prospective son-in-law’s house, as he was shown into the library, where Clive was busy writing.
“Ah, Major,” he cried, “then you had my telegram?”
“Your telegram, sir, no.”
“Tut-tut-tut! I’m sorry. But I need not ask you any questions. Your face shows that you have heard the rumour.”
“Heard the cursed rumour? Yes, sir,” cried the Major indignantly. “How can you have the heart to take the matter so lightly?”
“Lightly? Why not? I am only sorry that it should worry my friends.”
“Clive Reed!” cried the Major, bringing his fist down so heavily upon the table that the pens leaped out of the tray; “this may be a slight matter to a mining adventurer who lives by gambling, but do you grasp the fact that it is utter ruin to me and my child?”
“My dear sir, no, I do not; and as soon as I found out what was the matter, I sent off a telegram, and paid for a horse messenger to ride over and set you at your ease.”
“Set me at my ease!” cried the Major, tugging the end of his great moustache into his mouth and gnawing it. “How can a man, sir, be at his ease who has lost his all—who sees his child brought to penury?”
“My dear sir,” began Clive.
“Silence, sir!” cried the Major, giving vent to the pent-up wrath which had been gathering. “Silence! Hear what I have to say. I received you at my home, believing you to be an honourable man—a gentleman. I did not draw back when I found that my poor child had been won over by your insidious ways, and I was weak enough to let you draw me into this cursed whirlpool, and persuade me to embark my little capital to be swept down to destruction.”
“Did I, sir?” said Clive quietly.
“No: I will be just, even in my despair. That was my own doing, for I was blinded by your representations of wealth to come. I know: I was a fool and a madman, and I am justly punished: but I did think, sir, that you would have met me differently to this. It is a trifle perhaps to you speculators, you mining gamblers. Your way of living here in this house shows that a few thousands more or less are not of much consequence to you.”
There was a look of grave sympathy in Clive’s face as he listened patiently to the angry visitor’s words: and twice over he made an effort to speak, but the Major furiously silenced him.
“Let me finish, sir,” he cried, speaking now almost incoherently, his face flushed, and the veins in his temples knotted. “I came here, sir, meaning to speak a few grave words of reproach—to tell you of the contempt with which you have inspired me; but—but—I—but I—oh, curse it all, sir, how could you let me fall into this pit—how could you come to me and win my confidence—my poor child’s confidence, and behave like a scoundrel to one who met you from the beginning as a friend?”
He ceased, and Clive rose from his chair, crossed to where he had thrown himself down, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“Major Gurdon—father,—what have I ever done to make you think me such a scoundrel?”
“Don’t—don’t speak to me,” cried the Major hoarsely.
“I must,—I shall,” said Clive quietly. “You are terribly upset by this news; but did I not send you a message—have I not told you that there is no cause for anxiety?”
“What, sir, when all London is ringing with the collapse of your scheme, and people are selling right and left for anything they can get.”
“Poor fools! yes,” said Clive calmly. “They will smart for it afterwards.”
“What!” cried the Major, trying to rise from his seat, but Clive pressed him back. “I tell you all London is ringing with the bursting of the bubble.”
Clive smiled.
“With the miserable, contemptible rumour put about by some scheming scoundrel to make money out of the fears of investors.”
“What! There, sir, it is of no use. I know what you will say—that the shares will recover shortly. Bah! Nonsense! Some of you have made your money by your speculation; and poor, weak, trusting fools like me, as you say, must smart for it.”
“Major Gurdon,” said Clive sadly, “you ought to have had more confidence in the man you made your friend.”
“Confidence! I gave you all my confidence, and you have ruined me.”
“No.”
“Then stood by calmly and seen me ruined.”
“No.”
“What, sir?”
“My dear Major, life among the Derby Dales has made you extremely unbusiness-like.”
“Yes, sir, an easy victim,” cried the Major angrily. “To panic: yes. There, let us end this painful business.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” cried the Major, springing up; “let us end this painful business. I understand, and I am going. God forgive you, Clive Reed, for I never can.”
“You have nothing to forgive,” said Clive gravely, as he met the Major’s angry gaze with his clear, penetrating eyes. “Once for all, believe me; this is a rumour set about by schemers. The ‘White Virgin’ is immaculate and growing richer day by day.”
“But my brokers assured me that the case was hopeless.”
“Your brokers, sir, derived their information on ’Change. I, who speak to you from my own experience, and from that of my dear dead father, give you my opinion based upon something tangible—the mine itself. Does poor Dinah know of all this?”
“Sir, I have no secrets from my child.”
“What did she say?”
“Say? What would a weak woman say?” cried the Major contemptuously. “You have done your work well there.”
“She trusted me and told you to believe?”
The Major’s brows knitted tightly.
“God bless her!” cried Clive, with his face lighting up, and his eyes softening. “I knew she would; and come, sir, you will trust me too. I am so sorry. One of my dearest old friends has ruined himself over the wretched business.”
“You are right, sir,” said the Major. “I have.”
“I did not mean you,” said Clive, smiling; “but Doctor Praed. He actually accepted the news as true, let himself be swept along on the flood of the panic, and sold out to some scheming scoundrel who, for aught I know, may be at the bottom of all this.” The angry flush began to die out of the Major’s face, leaving it in patches of a clayey white.
“If I could only bring it home to the scoundrel—but it would be impossible. I hear that he has been buying heavily and for a mere nothing. But I’m glad you came to me first. Stop—you said you had heard from your brokers.”
“Yes, sir; I went to my brokers at once.”
“Major!” cried Clive excitedly, as a sadden thought flashed through his brain. “Good Heavens! Surely you have not sold your shares?”
The Major was silent, for at last the younger man’s tones had carried conviction.
“You have?”
The Major nodded, and looked ghastly now.
“Then you have thrown away thousands,” cried Clive angrily. “There was not a share to be had when you bought. They were mine—my very own, that no other man in England should have had at any price. Why didn’t you come to me? How could you be so mad?”
“Then—then it really is a false report?” faltered the Major.
“False as hell,” cried Clive, who now strode up and down the room in turn, his brow knit, and eyes flashing. “How could you be so weak—how could you be so mad? The scoundrels! The cowardly villains. Oh, Major, Major, you should have trusted me.”
There was a tap at the door, and the Major took out his handkerchief, and made a feint to blow his nose loudly, as he surreptitiously wiped the great drops from his brow.
“Come in,” cried Clive; and the servant entered with a number of newspapers.
“The evening papers, sir.”
Clive caught them up one by one, and pointed out letter and advertisement denying the truth of the rumour, and denouncing it as a financial trick to depreciate the value of the shares.
“But it will not stop the panic,” said Clive sadly. “People will believe the lie, and turn away from the truth. I have given instructions to buy up every share that is offered, but I find that a Mr Wrigley is buying up all he can get.”
“Yes,” said the Major faintly. “I believe he is the man who bought mine.”
“Tchah!” ejaculated Clive. “Yes, it is a conspiracy for certain. There: write a message and send off at once to Dinah. Tell her it is as she believed, only a rumour, and that everything is right.”
“Everything wrong, you mean,” groaned the Major. “How can I write that?”
“Because everything will be all right, sir. You do not think I am going to let my dearest wife’s father suffer for an error of judgment?”
“No, no,” groaned the Major, “I cannot lower—I cannot—God in Heaven! how could I have been such a fool.”
“Because, my dear sir,” said Clive, patting his shoulder affectionately, “you are not quite perfect. There, send the message at once. Poor darling! She must be in agony.”
The Major’s face went down upon his hands.
“Send it—you—you can write—”
“It shall be in your name then,” said Clive, and he dashed off the missive. “There.” Turning to the Major, he took his hands. “Come, sir, look me in the eyes, and tell me you believe now that I am an honest man.”
“I—I cannot look you in the face, Clive,” murmured the Major huskily. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t humble me any more.”
“Humble you, sir? not I. There, that is all past. Never mind the shares. Why, my dear sir, I have never made any boast of it, but my poor father left me immensely rich, and my tastes are very simple. I am obliged to work for others, and, as I told you, it was his wish that the mine should stand high, and stand high it shall. There, our darling will soon be at rest. You and I will have dinner together here, and enjoy a bottle of the father’s claret. To-morrow morning you shall go down home again.—Yes, what is it?”
“Mr Belton, sir.”
“Show him in directly.”
“A moment. Let me go,” cried the Major.
“No, no, I want you to know Mr Belton, my father’s old solicitor and friend.”
“Here I am, Clive, my boy,” cried the old gentleman, entering mopping his face. “Oh, I thought you were alone.”
“Better than being alone,” said Clive; “this is a very dear friend of mine—Major Gurdon. I want you to know each other.”
“Any friend of Clive Reed’s, sir, is my friend,” said the old lawyer rather stiffly; but there was a look of pleasure in his eyes, as he shook hands with the Major, who greeted him with this touch, for he could not trust himself to speak.
“Sit down, Belton,” said Clive eagerly now. “What news?”
“Shall I—er—”
“Yes, of course. I have no secrets from Major Gurdon.”
The old lawyer passed his silk handkerchief over his forehead, glanced keenly at the Major, and then went on.
“Well, there is no doubt about one thing: a Mr Wrigley, a scheming, money-lending solicitor—rather shady in reputation, but a man who can command plenty of capital—has been buying up every share he could get hold of.”
“Then it is a conspiracy,” cried Clive.
“Not a doubt about it.”
“Then, what to do next. Surely we can have a prosecution.”
“Humph! What for? Sort of thing often going on in the money market, I believe. What have you got to prosecute about?”
“I?”
“Yes; you haven’t lost. Poor old Praed now, he has something to shout about.”
“But scandal, libel, defamation of the property.”
“Let those who have lost risk a prosecution if they like. So long as I am your legal adviser, my dear boy, I shall devote myself to keeping you out of litigation.”
“But surely you would advise something.”
“Yes. Go back to your mine and make all you can, and be careful not to get into trouble over any underground trespassing.”
“Well, if I go to the west, here is my neighbour. You’ll forgive me, sir?”
“Of course, of course, my boy,” said the Major hurriedly.
Mr Belton looked at him searchingly as he went on.
“The shares will recover their position in time, and the sellers will be pretty angry then, of course. There’s no doubt about the conspiracy, my boy, but don’t you meddle in the matter. We have done all that was necessary to restore confidence. You saw, I suppose, that the letters and advertisements were in the evening papers?”
“Oh yes.”
“They’ll be in all the morning papers, of course.”
“And how long will it be before confidence is restored?”
“Not for long enough, but that will not affect your returns from the mine. But the poor old Doctor; I am sorry that he should have let himself be bitten.”
“A great pity,” said Clive drily; “but never mind that. You will continue to make inquiries.”
“Eh? about the conspiracy? Of course. I have a good man at work—a man who is pretty intimate with the stockbroking set, and I daresay I shall hear more yet.”
“There: now let’s change the subject. You will dine with us to-night, Belton?”
“Well, you see, my dear boy, I—er—”
“You must,” said Clive decisively. “I go back into the country again directly. I have some letters to write now. Seven punctually.”
“Seven punctually,” said the old lawyer, rising. He was punctual to the minute, and he and the Major got on famously as they chatted over old times, but somehow or other the old gentleman would keep reverting to the losses over the shares sustained by Doctor Praed, with the result that the Major did not enjoy his dinner.